Immune
by irukandji
Summary: [Content Warning: Eating Disordered Behaviors, Mentions of Self-Harm, & Mild Suicidal Idealization] The euphoric sensations that binging and purging formerly invoked had waned, and his body and mind had developed a tolerance from the frequent and lengthy abuse. There was no cognitive reward and no physical reward; its only worth was the worth of addiction.


**Content Warning: Eating Disordered Behaviors, Mentions of Self-Harm, & Mild Suicidal Idealization**

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The euphoric sensations that binging and purging formerly invoked had waned, and his body and mind had developed a tolerance from the frequent and lengthy abuse. The tolerance had first manifested itself physically. The gag reflex he had once easily activated by roughly sliding his fingers against the slimy back of his tongue could now only be summoned after a harsh assault to his throat. Arduously, he now wasted a minute or two frantically flicking and wiggling his appendages, and forcing his hand so deep it appeared he intended to swallow his entire wrist. His body would writhe in the hope of mocking nausea-inducing vertigo, and his desperation was channeled into harsh shoves against his abdomen with dreams of forcing his stomach all the way out of his mouth.

The feasts he binged upon no longer created the intense sensory responses he desired either. Foods he had once insatiably devoured tasted flat, bland, and pleasure-less. He craved for increasingly powerful flavors of the most abhorrent variants: cheap cookie dough, thick slabs of butter, ridiculously sugary cakes, and all else that was sickeningly flavorsome. More disturbingly, he had discovered that the physical satisfaction he gained from purging had lessened as well. The change in his preferred binge items had caused his purges to become heavier and harsher, but even so, his body experienced only a mundane ache from it. The strain of his muscles and the exhaustion in his bones felt routine and acutely unsatisfactory. Again, he was forced to seek methods of intensifying the abuse.

If he had possessed a higher sense of self-worth, the realization that he had accepted binging and purging as a _normal_ aspect of his life would have been horrifying. However, he possessed a very minimal sense and had felt only number at the realization. Binging and purging had once been a hysterical, emotional tantrum, igniting him with adrenaline that left him trembling, wide-eyed, and bewildered as sugars and fats and carbohydrates surged in and out of his body. He had once reveled in flavors of food and vomit, indulging in its escape with desperation and deriving from it all the life and emotion he desired so greatly. Now his apathy remained undeterred.

He despised apathy for the heaviness it created in life. Such depression weighted down the motions of his body with fatigue and diminished what little will he possessed. He did not experience the time that passed; he became stagnant in an inescapable and suffocating detachment. All the passion and fervor he wanted to emanate of dissipated, and he struggled to care for his self and remain functional.

Binging and purging had once been a powerful combatant of the negativity in his life. It had been an effective medication, stimulating all the necessary areas of his brain to gain momentary relief. Plagued by an abysmal sense of hopelessness, he had clung to the activity as a savior and escape. It had displayed promises of peace and stability – promises he had quickly become disillusioned of. Now, he bitterly clung to binging and purging because he knew of nothing else. There was no cognitive reward and no physical reward; its only worth was the worth of addiction.

He acknowledged its newfound worthlessness, but he was not inspired to recover by it. Ensnared in a twisted, masochistic cycle he could only worsen, becoming either increasingly dangerous or increasingly detached. For the time being, he only felt number – but numbness led to danger. Numbness resulted in dreams of razorblades and copious bottles of pills. His fingers stroked and scratched the hideous scars on his thighs as he contemplated re-familiarizing himself with thin, wicked steel. When his eyelids flickered closed, he saw images of blood dribbling across skin in wondrous shades of red and soothing, warm temperatures. Pills he imagined in excess, often yearning for mouthfuls of sticky, lusterless capsules to make him shake and vomit and sweat and sleep.

Nevertheless, he felt most a vehement _need_ to reacquire the severe intensities of purging. He sought acidic liquids and fruits for the burn they reaped when mixed with his stomach acid. He indulged on foods with weights so heavy he could only heave and choke as they caught in his throat. He devoured foods with sharp edges and horrible textures so they scraped and stuck to his sensitive esophagus. He attempted to binge larger and purge longer with such ferocity that his entrails threatened to spill from his throat, but despair and exhaustion often prevented him from even nearing such a goal. His emptiness felt so terribly inhuman, but _it wasn't fucking working_ – oh, gods, _please just make it stop._

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Author's Note: I feel uneasy posting this.


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